


Stranded

by Stark



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Meetings, Spaceships, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stark/pseuds/Stark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before <i>The Force Awakens. </i></p>
<p>The first time they meet, they’re both stranded on Jakku: Poe for a couple of days, Rey for as long as she can remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Poe feels the left engine starting to choke before he hears it, and he knows he’s in trouble.

“Don’t do this to me,” he mutters at the ship, but it’s too late.

She pulls hard to the right, the attitude indicator tilts dangerously, and the engine overheat warning light comes on. Several others join it soon, and their beeping becomes erratic, more insistent. He yanks the control stick, and risks a quick look over his shoulder. There’s a trail of thick black smoke behind him, a stark contrast against the white sun, and the stabilizer wing is on fire. He throttles back, letting the A-Wing descend a bit and leveling her with the horizon. Then he cuts the damaged engine off. It dies with a final sputter that sends a wave of violent vibrations through the entire ship.

Thankfully, the remaining engine is powerful enough to let him bring her down relatively safely. There’s no way he can steer the ship properly, though, and he ends up landing in the middle of the desert, surrounded by seemingly endless sand, all directions looking the same.

He takes a deep breath, gives the right engine and himself a moment to cool down, and considers his options. A-Wings are fast and stealthy, a hyperdrive always ready for a jump, which made this ship perfect for his reconnaissance mission, but their J-77s are volatile, something he’s never had the misfortune to experience firsthand before. Too volatile for what he’s about to do, maybe, but what choice does he have? Sure, he could send a distress signal to their base on D’Qar, or wait for some helpful stranger to run into him and possibly recognize him, but both options bear the risk of alerting half the galaxy that General Organa is for some reason suddenly interested in Jakku, and that’s the last thing he wants.

He checks the navicomputer: the nearest town is only fifty clicks away, so this might actually work. With the power levels set to minimum, he reactivates the right engine, and grabs the control stick.

He pulls it gently towards him, and the ship rises just a bit, hovering uncertainly just above the ground. Quickly, he adjusts the controls the stabilizer wings — or what’s left of them — and feeds the jets more power. The A-Wing springs up into the air, and he starts laughing, relieved.

 

***

 

Half an hour in, and he already starts regretting his decision.

It’s crazy to expect such maneuverability from a starfighter during atmospheric flight, especially so close to the ground and one engine short. With the sensitive controls of the A-Wing, he needs to watch his every move, and keep a close eye on the instruments at all times, and he doubts he can keep up this level of concentration for much longer, especially at this excruciatingly slow pace.

The worst thing, however, is the sun.

It hangs high in the cloudless sky, blindingly white, and the heat crawls in through the canopy. He feels drops of sweat forming on his forehand and he reaches to remove his helmet. That’s the exact moment the ship chooses to lose altitude. Poe reacts a second too late, and she drops into the sand, nose first. The cockpit lights up with a dozen new warning lights as the sensor array digs deep into the dirt. He can only hope that the sand is soft enough from this height; replacing the sensors would be too sophisticated for him to do on his own.

He bites down a curse.

“You’re no better than a sandcrawler,” he mutters angrily at the ship as he struggles to pull her up again, half hoping she starts cooperating out of sheer indignation.

When they’re back in the air — well, if you can call hovering three feet above the ground as being in the air — he activates the cooling systems. Nothing happens.

“You know I didn’t really mean it, don’t you?” he asks, and a new warning light blinks. _AC OFFLINE_. He sighs. “Just great.”

 

***

 

It takes him nearly four hours to haul the ship to the nearest settlement. The place is called Niima Outpost, his navicomputer tells him; at least he made it to the other side of the planet. When he finally lands on the unkempt airfield, his hand is numb from maneuvering the control stick and his hair are wet with sweat. Thankfully, he managed to avoid any farther damage. His mother would be proud.

He doubts General Organa is going to be happy about any of this, though.

A wave of hot air hits his face when he opens the cockpit. He unfastens the belts and stands up, looking around. There are dozens of curious eyes on him; just what he needs.

Careful not to touch the hot metal, he jumps out and inspects the ship. The wing isn’t as badly damaged as he thought it would be, but it’s a small consolation, considering how expansive the damage to the left engine seems to be. There are still wisps of smoke coming from it, and the inner ring of the thrust vector control is completely charred. In theory — not the sort of theory you learn during your training, but the theory you discuss with your buddies over a couple of drinks, bragging loudly about the craziest stunts you pulled — he could try and do the jump, anyway, but he doesn’t trust the hyperdrive not to pull him into a spin too close to the ground, and there’s too much to risk.

He bites his lip, calculating. The repairs will take him at least five days, and he starts worrying they don’t have that much time.


	2. Chapter 2

Three days in, Poe finally narrows down the problem with the engine.

It’s still going to take one or two days to fix it properly, and to fine-tune thrust vectoring, but there’s one upside to doing this in Niima Outpost: the place has a market practically crawling with merchants selling all kinds of ship parts, scavenged from the battlefield nearby.

Locals call it the Graveyard of Giants, a strangely fitting name, Poe has decided. He learned about the Battle of Jakku when he was a boy, always excited to hear his father’s stories about the brave Rebellion pilots and their amazing spaceships. Then he learned about it again, as a young man, studying diagrams of strategic maneuvers and analyzing tactical advantages of both sides; this time, only names of the commanders were ever mentioned. And even then, when tales of courage and camaraderie were reduced to a case study, he never gave much thought to what happened to the ships that had been shot down. Rationally, he knew they hadn’t just disappeared, but it was hard to think about them, to picture them stranded on some foreign world or floating in space. Especially later, when he lost his own people in battle, it was safer not to dwell on those thoughts. It feels surreal now to see the remnants of two great fleets reduced to scraps, their weapons disassembled and harmless, their engines stripped down until there were nothing but empty shells, bits of metal ready to be turned into new weapons, to fight new wars.

Sometimes, he catches himself looking at the Star Destroyer, a dark shape always looming on the horizon, reminding him to work faster.

Poe straightens up, wincing at the pain in his back, and rubs the nape of his neck. It’s been a long day, and no matter how eager he is to leave the planet, he doesn’t think he can do much more today. His entire body aches, reminding him he’s not twenty anymore, and his muscles are sore from the uncomfortable position he’s spent the last few hours in. He’s really not looking forward to another night in the cramped A-Wing cockpit, but he’s got nowhere else to go. Jakku isn’t exactly known for its booming hospitality industry — or hospitality itself.

Taking off his dirty gloves, he heads back to the cockpit to get some water. It’s gone stale in the standard issue cast-plast container, but he still gulps it down greedily, licking his lips to catch every drop. He uses the remaining water to wash his hands and face. It’s a waste of resources, and the effect isn’t too spectacular without soap, but it’s definitely worth it for the moment of coolness it brings him.

When he raises his eyes, blinking away the drops from his lashes, he notices another mechanic, a human, who stares at him dumbfounded, but he looks away as soon as he realizes Poe has noticed him. Three days ago, this kind of behavior would send his senses into overdrive with paranoia, but he’s used to this now. If anything, it means they’ve accepted him as a part of their quiet, indifferent community, figuring he’s another mercenary or smuggler in need of a place to lay low for a couple of weeks — or for the rest of his life.

No need to correct them, he thinks.

 

***

 

“Seventy credits,” the vendor says.

Ignoring the fact that she’s obviously ripping him off, Poe slides two fifties across the counter. He doesn’t look at her when she examines the coins, turning them around in her thin fingers. People around here aren’t too keen on eye contact, he has found.

Finally, apparently satisfied with the quality of his money, she places the water container and a small can of thruster lubricant on the counter, along with a heap of small packets filled with powder.

 “What’s that?” he asks, indicating the packets.

She barks out, increasingly irritated, “Your change. Food rations. Official currency. No refunds. No complaints. Move!”

He really doubts that the rations are worth thirty credits, but he collects them, not bothering to argue with the vendor, and leaves. It's been a long day and all he wants is to eat something and rest; besides, there's no point in drawing attention to himself. The market is crawling with scavengers and mechanics, most of them carrying bags full of metal scraps or hauling larger ship parts on makeshift sleds. He pushes his way through the crowd. In civilian clothes and with his face still smeared with grease and dirt, he blends right in: just another traveler unfortunate enough to be stuck in Niima Outpost for the night. He doubts there’s anyone around here who’d recognize him, but it’s not worth taking the risk, so he makes sure to keep his head low, and heads to the outskirts of the market.

Finally, he finds a spot in one of the tents, occupied by a bunch of Toydarians who are arguing loudly over a game of sabacc, too busy to pay attention to him. He's too tired to look for another place, though, and he sits down on a low bench right next to the open flap, allowing for an easy escape. It feels utterly blissful to be able to stretch his legs, the stench coming from the merchants be damned. The sun isn't any more forgiving than it was in the morning, and he's grateful for that bit of shadow, even though the air in the tent is stale and hot, and soon there’s an unpleasant layer of fresh sweat forming on his skin. It’s better than sunstroke, he supposes.

From his seat, he sees a long line of scavengers turning in their daily loot. He can’t help feeling sorry for them — he’s only been here for three days, and he already hates this place. A bunch of destroyed ships aren't enough to turn a desert into an oasis, and hardly anyone stays here by choice. Living here with no hope of escape must be a nightmare, and he doubts those desperate to leave are going to be able to escape Jakku anytime soon.

He’s chewing on the third slab of tasteless green protein when he hears shouting coming from the previously apathetic queue. His hand immediately moves to the blaster on his hip and he unfastens the holster without thinking. It’s an automatic reaction, but he berates himself for it. The sunlight and exhaustion might make his nerves go haywire, but there’s no point in drawing attention to himself, especially now that his stay on Jakku finally has an end date on it.

Especially over a marketplace squabble.

He casts a quick glance at his surroundings, but he finds that he overestimated locals’ interest in either him, or the scavengers. He reaches for his water bottle, and looks around for the source of the commotion.

There’s a young human woman in the front of the queue, arguing with the merchant. Poe leans forward to hear them better, ignoring the protests from his back, but he only catches some words over the loud card game behind him. Still, the scene’s not hard to follow: the woman winces and starts saying something, the merchant interrupts her, and she reaches through the opening in the window to grab some piece of tech he’s been examining.

It’s a bold move, Poe supposes, and he smiles a bit. Other scavengers don’t seem amused, though, and one of them, a Teedo, steps forward and screeches something aggressively, reaching for her shoulder. She shrugs him off, and continues collecting the salvage from the counter, piece by piece, and puts them back in her satchel, ignoring the merchant, whose screams are getting loud enough for Poe to recognize the insults.

“And don’t you dare come here tomorrow!” he finishes, and pushes the remaining merchandise off the counter.

Poe winces. He’s started rooting for the girl.

The woman throws the merchant an angry glance and kneels to gather small pieces of metal, wiping the sand off each one before placing them in her bag. Other scavengers try to shove her away, impatient to get to the tiny window, but she ignores them.

His first instinct is to go and help her, but then he thinks about General Organa, about Lor San Tekka and his secret, about the Resistance and all the people counting on him — and he knows he can’t take this risk. It feels wrong to do nothing, and not just because he likes to think about himself as a kind person, but he knows he cannot let them all down. He knows that it’s the right thing to do, that in the grand scheme of things, finding Luke Skywalker is more important than a teaching a bully a lesson, and that it was naïve to think that joining the Resistance meant leaving internal conflict behind.

All of this stops mattering when he notices two guards on the woman’s six, and his hand lands on his blaster. This time, it’s deliberate.

There’s no need for him to use it, though.

The moment he unholsters his weapon, the woman turns her head in his direction. He could swear she looks straight at him, even across the distance, but before he has a chance to do something, that second of connection is gone — and he watches in disbelief as she grabs some sort of staff she carries on her back, and swings it at two thugs behind her, cutting their legs from under them. They stumble backwards, and she spins, and hits again, and Poe flinches; he can almost feel the force on the blow. She stands up, holding her staff defensively, and some people take a step back.

He realizes nobody’s cheering.

 

***

 

The market quickly recovers from this unexpected fight, as if everyone suddenly decided to forget what happened. The guards shake sand off their clothes, and disappear into one of the tents. The scavengers form a line again, and soon the merchant from the window starts examining another person’s loot. None of them look at the woman, who grabs her bag, and leaves; an apathetic, unanimous form of ostracism.

He waits a moment, then follows her. She seems to be heading to what locals call the Main Gate: a ridiculously decorative construction, strangely out of place in the middle of the desert, leading nowhere. Scavengers leave their vehicles there, he remembers, and he speeds up. His boots sink in the sand, feet still unused to the unsteady ground.

He only catches up with her outside the gate, and realizes he doesn’t know what to say to her.

“Hey, wait!”

She stops, and turns to look at him, her hand already reaching for her staff. He raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“No need for that,” he says, pointing at her weapon.

“I will judge that for myself,” she replies, but lets her hand fall to her side. “What do you want?”

The setting sun hangs low behind her, backlighting her silhouette against the desert, its last rays catching in pieces of metal sticking out from the bag she clutches protectively to her side. It makes him squint slightly, and he takes a step forward, into her long shadow, close enough to see her better, but not too close. She doesn’t back off.

“I’ve seen what happened,” he starts, then hesitates. It’s like admitting defeat, in a way. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, her face unreadable. “That’s all?”

“You’ve got an impressive swing.”

He really means it, and hopes it doesn’t sound like a cheap compliment. While he’s more of a blaster kind of a person when he’s stuck on the ground, he can appreciate her technique; this girl surely can handle herself in a fight. It doesn’t make him feel better about not helping her, though.

“They’re easy targets,” she says matter-of-factly. “You just need to aim for their ankles.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks. And I’ll make sure not to get on your bad side. I wouldn’t want to find out what to you think my soft spot is.”

That earns him a smile, and when he smiles back, she drops her battle stance, relaxing her shoulders a bit.

“You’re new here.”

“You could say that, yeah.”

“Then you should know not to get on Plutt’s bad side, either,” she says, and suddenly, her smile is gone. She tightens the grip on her bag; this is a goodbye. “Good luck.”

“Wait.” He reaches into his bag, and offers her a couple of small packets. “Here. Take these.”

“You really _are_ new,” she says, surprised, ignoring his outstretched hand.

“I’ve got enough food on my ship.” When she looks at him, incredulous, he adds, “And I’m leaving in a few days, anyway.”

She looks at him as if she’s heard this many times before. Too many. She probably has, he thinks. Was she supposed to leave soon, too? Were her family? Everybody she knew?

“I’m not a beggar.”

“Let’s trade, then. My rations for“—he takes a quick look at her bag—“a stabilizer?”

“Two stabilizers,” she responds immediately. “That’s a fair price.”

“I guess it is,” he agrees, surprised. Of all the places in the universe, he didn’t expect to find someone haggling down their own merchandise in Niima Outpost; he feels vaguely guilty about that. “Thank you.”

“They’re old, but in good condition,” she says, searching for the second stabilizer. “Should be enough for any smaller spaceship. I got them from an old X-Wing,” she adds, and he hears pride in her voice. “Not many of them left, you see.”

She hands him the stabilizers; he’s not sure if it’s a gesture of trust, or if she’s just rushing to close the deal. For appearances’ sake, he takes his time inspecting them, and finds himself nodding appreciatively; he can’t believe the parts are as old as he is.

“These are worth way more than this,” he says, handing her the rations; they immediately disappear in her satchel.

“Plutt pays one portion for each. On a good day.”

So not today, Poe thinks, and probably not tomorrow. A new idea comes to his mind; she’s the friendliest and most trustworthy person he’s meet in Niima Outpost so far, so he figures it’s worth a shot.

“Listen, is there any place around here where I can find a bed?” When she casts him a suspicious look, he adds, “I'm really not looking forward to another night in the pilot seat.”

“You'll be lucky if you find your ship intact when you come back.”

“It's an old pile of rust, anyway,” he lies easily. “So? I can pay, you and the host. In credits.”

She frowns, and looks him up and down, thinking. He doesn’t know what she’s searching his face for, and whether she finds it, but suddenly something in her dark eyes shifts, and she nods.

“You can stay at my place.”


End file.
